


Captured in Stone

by she_who_the_river_could_not_hold



Series: Fics for t100 Fic for BLM Initiative [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Family Secrets, Gothic Romance, Mild Angst, Mystery, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, discussions of abuse (brief), doctor!clarke, references to Octavia x Niylah, some things not tagged for spoiler reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 03:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/she_who_the_river_could_not_hold/pseuds/she_who_the_river_could_not_hold
Summary: Clarke Griffin has been a source of mystery for the town of Arkadia. And that only increases when one night she’s summoned to the mysterious Blake Manor. There, Bellamy Blake tasks her with helping his sister who has fallen into an unending slumber. While she attends to her new patient, Clarke can’t help but feel a romantic tension building between herself and Bellamy. But the manor seems to draw on the emotions of the people within it and it all comes to a head when Octavia suddenly awakens. And with it, the unveiling of family secrets that had been buried away.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Fics for t100 Fic for BLM Initiative [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069367
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	Captured in Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to possibly my newest and possibly most on brand fic I've written! This story was prompted by mkguptill on Twitter through The 100 Fic for Black Lives Matter. If this is the first you’ve heard of it, it’s an initiative where writers and content creators are accepting prompts for donations that help support the BLM cause. If you want to learn more about it, you can check out the carrd for it [here](https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/)! 
> 
> The concept for this is really special to me and I’m so glad it was prompted! This fic is in part a tribute to Tim Burton and Edgar Allan Poe, my heroes growing up, and it’s also inspired by Guillermo del Toro’s Crimson Peak. There are also some nods to the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney, which absolutely has straight up just become a part of my personality at this point. You can find the moodboard for it [here on Tumblr](https://she-who-the-river-could-not-hold.tumblr.com/post/645682207001821184/captured-in-stone-a-bellarke-gothic-romance). I hope you enjoy it!

_ October, sometime in the late 19th century –– _

One could argue that the town of Arkadia was almost as picturesque as its neighboring villages, but it was impossible to deny that the dreary autumn season did nothing in its favor.

Nestled out of the outskirts of a forest, it was encircled by stone and trees, framed by cragged bare branches that stretched out to touch it. The weather that accompanied the area had the decency to have variety as a whole, but more often than not found itself shaded by low hanging clouds. October had arrived that year and brought with it rainfall, a chill in the air, and a sleepiness as the town’s cycle prepared to once again enter winter sooner than anyone really wanted to. In just under a couple of months snow would arrive and the yule season would make the cold feel a little more festive, but for now it remained dark and shrouded in muted fall.

Its entrance was nondescript––appropriate for the practicalness of the people who lived there. It wouldn’t do to waste money on something flashy. Understated was more suited to the Arkadians, compared to the over-the-top grandeur that Polis held up as a facade for any visitors. The cobblestone roads that wound through the buildings were at some parts more dirt than stone, adding to the muddy trek required in the autumn rainstorms. Paint on shop signs wasn’t to the point of peeling, but a quick glance would have neighbors nodding to each other and agreeing that it should be something to be added to the list of upcoming tasks to take care of next year. And then it never would happen, but that’s how people just get through life sometimes. But the houses and shops in the town were still perfect for the mountainous town––cozy thatched roofs topped stucco and darkly stained wood panels, an orange glow from candlelight and fireplaces dotting the translucent windows. 

Deeper into Arkadia led to the town square. There, a marketplace often appeared for the townspeople and traveling salesmen to do their best to sell their creations and wares. Autumn was the last chance for most of the farmers on the outskirts to sell their crops and the dreariness couldn’t hold back those anxious for the freshness of vegetables before hunkering down and cursing at the blanketed snow. So for now, shawls grasped tightly against fall’s brisk breeze or boots stomping on wayward leaves, the citizens of Arkadia would brave the cooling temperatures to support their fellow neighbor.

Beyond the marketplace though, past the smaller homes that dotted the edge of the area, was one shop that rarely participated in the marketplace. And it was standard for the citizens to feel quite as eager to support, though they didn’t always have a choice in the matter.

Griffin Apothecary was located in a ramshackle house. A stone chimney had an ever present trail of smoke coming out from the top, its windows small and clouded with old glass that was warped and tinged green with age. It didn’t smell  _ bad _ per se, but most Arkadians weren’t as knowledgeable about the medicinal herbs that had almost gone out of practice over the years, forgotten information that led to townspeople sighing as they marched their way towards it when an ailment fell upon their house and the other doctor could only shrug in helplessness. A wrinkle of the nose and a knock against the heavy door would reveal the shop’s owner and caretaker. The sole Griffin family member left in Arkadia.

Clarke Griffin, everyone agreed, was a strange one.

She had not in fact, been born there (which didn’t help the situation). One day, on a blustery fall day years ago when the sky was stained orange with the changing of the leaves, the Griffins had appeared in Arkadia.

A family of three, they’d been curious from the start. The patriarch of the family, Jacob Griffin, was an inventor. Though in a seemingly equal balance of distribution within the family, his wife Abigail was a practicing doctor. But then “doctor” began to feel like a strange word to describe her as her practice spread. Not a witch or anything of the sort (it had been decades since they’d had to deal with one of those types of women), but still of a unique practice. A decidedly older approach to medicine that ruffled feathers and had many reported sightings to the woman and her young daughter out in the forest gathering herbs and various plants.

The idea of any family stopping after one child was peculiar, so rumors circulated the town. Anything could have caused the woman to no longer be fertile and a few of the town’s residents steadfastly believed it to be because of the way she handled medicine.

No one would ever find out though because within two years, both of the parents had passed away leaving young Clarke to take over the apothecary.

Now into her early twenties, the young woman remained as mysterious as her parents before her. Unmarried, unsurprising based on her practice but still of some shock at her unarguable attractive qualities. Always alone, isolated in her shop and only appearing to perform medical work at a patient’s home or at the market. No one refused to sell to her, but it was impossible to deny that she had most likely at some point heard the whispers that lingered in her wake.

The worst of it all, the grumblings of the townspeople, she was incredibly good at what she did.

Probably, in fact, better than her mother before her.

She had an uncanny ability at bringing people back from the brink of death, mending bones that had left others in the village over hobbling for life. Ailments disappeared over night. To be certain, more whispers of witchcraft followed her than Abigail. But none could prove it. So she remained in the town, taking care of the most desperate while shouldering their gossip and suspicion. She stayed in that small, dark apothecary in town where the only signs of life was the lone candle in the window and the smoke pluming above from whatever concoction she was making.

That would be how it usually was; as it had been for the past four years. But right now, there was no trail of smoke coming out of the shop. Because Clarke Griffin was not at home or running the apothecary as normal.

She, instead, was at the Blake Manor at the top of the hill behind the town. 

On the outskirts of town, to the back of all of it, remained a solitary pathway that seemed older than the cobblestones that led to it. From there, it wound its way up in elevation as it approached the low hills surrounding the town. In the fall and winter, and sometimes the early spring, a permanent fog found its way to hover above the grounds. Above it all soared a large stone house, more castle than anything. It had been there since the time of the town’s creation and none of the current residents would be able to tell you of its history. Sharp black turrets pierced the gray sky as if to warn those who came too close to it. The manor felt more a part of its surroundings than it did a part of the town.

And if there was one element that could be more curious or intriguing than the young woman who seemed to command death with her finger tips, it was the Blake Manor and the occupants of it––of whom the townspeople hadn’t seen or heard from in years at this point.

All they knew was that at one point there had been a family, and then all appearances disappeared save for reported sightings of the two siblings from occasional travelers who ventured that far past town. There would then be a pause, before a mumbling of something about the land not feeling right. But that was all there would ever be to that story since no one dared cross onto the property or get close enough to look at the figures of the residents who were at least confirmed to still be alive. But even with the sightings, the manor’s grounds and emptiness felt like an echo of death itself and no one made their way up towards it.

Except now, with a hushed fervor of gossip based on Mrs. Harper Green’s brief sighting, Clarke Griffin had been summoned to the manor in the twilight evening of the first of October. And there she’d remained for a fortnight, with no one none the wiser of when she’d be returning.

Or to what was amiss at the Blake Manor that seemed to require her special abilities.

* * *

Clarke held her breath as she slowly eased the door in front of her shut. Everything had a way of echoing in this house, each little noise amplified and reverberating through the very bones of its structure. She still wasn’t quite used to it.

It clicked shut, sealing the bedroom behind it closed. She then turned around, only to let out a small shriek.

“Mr. Blake!” She shakingly removed her hand from her heart where it had automatically flown to at the surprise. “I apologize, I didn’t hear you come up from behind me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied, his frown melting into concern at the idea that he’d scared her.

“How is my sister?”

He was slightly out of breath and it only took Clarke a few seconds to recognize that he’d been pacing. Again. She felt a rush of worry and affection towards the man, knowing that it didn’t matter how much she reassured him that over worrying wouldn’t help anything he couldn’t help himself. His anxiety could overwhelm him, a fact she’d picked up on the first day she’d arrived at the manor. 

“Octavia is still asleep,” she explained as patiently as she could. His jaw clenched in and out.

It was the same answer she’d given him every day for the fortnight she’d been here. Every day he responded with the same silence, the same frustration. Most of it targeted towards the unexplainable, some she knew in part towards her. The miracle worker he’d been promised wasn’t working. But he never yelled at her, never demanded that she worked faster. He simply clenched his jaw, flexed his black leather gloved hands, and paced throughout the house. 

It wasn’t his nerves that felt so affecting though. Clarke couldn’t help it, the way that his very presence could feel so consuming in a way that kept drawing her in. Most often, relatives to patients only aggravated her. They got in the way, pestering her for answers before she had them. But Bellamy Blake, despite how much she could feel his nerves rolling off of him, didn’t make her react in that way.

As if reading her thoughts though, he broke their usual routine with a low: “I apologize if you feel like I’m pressuring you. I understand that I ask an impossible task of you. I know you’re doing everything you can.”

The flash of anger at her answer to his question was gone. Now his eyes were simply dark again, though it was hard to see his deep brown, almost black, eyes as anything but simple. In another life, if Clarke’s calling had been to artistry instead of bodies, she would have greatly loved to try and capture them on paper. To see if it was even possible. When she realized she was staring at him longer than would be proper, she cleared her throat and nodded.

“I appreciate your patience, and I maintain my promise that Octavia will wake up again.”

She watched as his eyes floated from her face to just over her shoulder, towards his sister’s bedroom. 

Clarke knew she was an outsider in this house and since arriving, she hadn’t been able to help herself as she greedily picked up every crumb of information about the Blakes. While not quite as susceptible to gossip like a lot of the old crones in Arkadia with too much time on their hands, she hadn’t been able to completely avoid falling trap to the intrigue of the manor. An energy about it had drawn her since she’d arrived in Arkadia all those years ago. That same energy was what had made her agree to come here that night just a while ago. 

But as much as she absorbed as much as she could, paying attention to every little detail as much as she did her patient’s vitals, she couldn’t tell if she had actually learned as much as she wanted to. 

Namely, the curious nature of the siblings’ relationship and the secrets that she knew were held here.

But as he always had been, outside of his frantic worry for his sister, Bellamy remained as guarded as he had the day he’d swung open the front door to the manor to usher her in from the rain.

She didn’t bother diverting her gaze this time when he finally looked back at her.

“May I escort you to the study? I believe Niylah has some tea prepared, I know it’s been a long day for you.”

His voice had slipped back into a smoothness that made small goosebumps prickle on the back of Clarke’s neck. She wordlessly accepted his arm, intertwining hers with his and allowing him to guide her.

While she’d been at the manor for a little while now, she still appreciated any help that he or the few servants left were able to give her when it came to navigating the maze-like interior. With soaring walls connected to vaulted ceilings, it was cavernous and dizzying. Dark wood paneling that could pass for black in color was only highlighted by candles and the faint light that managed to stream through hazy windows. And don’t even get her started on the amount of stairs––Clarke was fairly certain the whole house had been able to hear her huffing and puffing as she struggled to climb them those first few days here.

But as intimidating as the house could be, paintings of family members and historical figures gone by seemingly watching her with distrust, Clarke never felt as anxious when Bellamy guided her through it. It was only when she was alone that she felt the peculiarness creep up again, as if it was trying to tell her something that it couldn’t when the elder Blake sibling was there.

She stole another glance at him as they conversed casually about the latest book he’d been reading to try and keep his mind off of Octavia’s current state. 

The withdrawn, moody personality that hovered over him at times always evaporated when he talked about something he was passionate about. It was at those times that he alighted with inspiration and a brightness that shed the darkness of the house. 

It was then, more than usual, that it was impossible to deny Bellamy’s attractiveness. She did have a set of perfectly functioning eyes and had yet to require even reading glasses for the evening.

It didn’t help that he was easy to converse with––a very different trait compared to those of the town. All of those young men, even the ones she found appealing to look at, struggled to make eye contact with her. Weren’t well-read, nor comfortable holding long conversations. None of those were requirements of course, but it didn’t make her yearn for the relationship her parents had shared. She’d found it impossible to imagine that it would ever be in the cards for her.

So of course, to her despair she felt like she’d found that match in the one person she had no chance of being with.

Bellamy was unafraid of eye contact, almost to the point of being overwhelming. When he spoke with you, it felt like he was staring directly into her mind. It should have been unsettling. But everytime he did it, extending past the actual conversation, she found herself sinking into his gaze for longer and longer. He was also of marrying age, and not too much older like some poor women fell victim too. Unmarried, a hurdle that would have almost made this all easier. 

But there were too many variables at play here that disrupt what feels like should have been a stroke of pure luck to bring her to his doorstep.

For one, his sister was her patient. His concern for Octavia made him dependent on Clarke and the fear of that driving any sort of attraction to her terrified her, even if it resulted in what she wanted. Especially since Octavia’s life still hung in limbo, in this dreamless sleep she’d unexplainably fallen into a month ago. If she couldn’t revive her, there was no telling how that might damage any sort of romantic inclination he could hold towards her. 

And there was of course the matter of herself. She would be able to make a list of the reasons she was attracted to Bellamy Blake, but she struggled to imagine what he would even find worthwhile in her. What self-respecting man, one who was afforded the chance to live in a manor, would find love in a young woman like her? She’d willingly embraced cloaking herself in death and illness. She knew she carried the weight of it with her. The berth that it granted her when she walked through town, doing her best to ignore that hesitant second-glance she received. Not a witch, but not a doctor. Men wanted women who could embroider, not sew up gashes in a leg. Women covered in flour from baking, not blood splattered aprons. In a household this shrouded in silence and darkness, she still saw herself as a stain against it and the small Blake family.

Because there was one main perspective she’d gained since her time here. Even with Octavia in this slumber, she’d learned that the Blakes were nothing like how the town viewed them. Mysterious, yes. Dangerous, no. They were two siblings alone in the world. Bellamy had never mentioned any other family to her and his fierce protectiveness of his sister was something of envy to Clarke.

She’d always been alone in the world, even with how much her parents had doted on her when they’d been alive. So no matter how much she knew whispers circulated throughout the town, she knew it was all lies. It was impossible to villainize the Blakes now that she knew them. And while she may not know all of their secrets, of which she was confident they had, it didn’t matter.

They reached the drawing room, the lone footman Miller helping swing open the door for them as if he’d known they’d been coming.

Floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, sparsely broken up the busts of people that Clarke didn’t recognize. From what she knew of Bellamy Blake since arriving, they were most likely obscure historical figures. Heavy curtains blocked most of the windows, as they did with most of the house. She hadn’t broached that topic with him yet. It was curious though and she wondered how the siblings had lived before Octavia’s mysterious slumber. It was as if the very house was trying to retreat into itself, hiding from the outside world and disappearing into the darkness of the very woods that surrounded it.

In the back of the large room, framed by two large chairs, a crackling fire was waiting for them and Clarke let out a sigh of contentment as the warmth brushed over her face as they sat down. 

Stepping out of the shadows, a willowy blonde woman appeared to serve them tea. The Blakes kept a bare-bones amount of workers in the manor considering its size. Clarke had been introduced to Niylah on her first night there and while her main role was Octavia’s companion and lady’s maid, she worked with Miller throughout most of the house on various tasks. Clarke also had a suspicion that there was more to her relationship with Octavia, but hadn’t found a tactful way to inquire about it. It wasn’t forbidden in these parts, but it was still a personal enough question that she didn’t want to upset anyone. Especially if Octavia didn’t awaken. 

With a nod to both of them, Niylah finished serving them and then melted back into the shadows. No doubt to return to Octavia’s chambers, where she usually read a book on her own when Clarke wasn’t there to check in on her. It was sweet, a dedication to someone that made Clarke’s heart clench.

A habit, it seemed, for this household. The level of dedication that the household members felt to each other only made her feel even lonelier.

It was as if Bellamy read her thoughts though, and maybe it had been clear on her face as she’d watched Niylah disappear out of the room. Or maybe it was just always obvious that she saw herself as a ghost amongst the living more than she did a living, breathing woman.

“I hate to think that I’m keeping you from your life back in town too much.” 

The genuine apologetic tone to Bellamy’s voice made Clarke unexpectedly laugh, the giggle bubbling up and bursting out of her before she could help it. Blushing at the outburst, she quickly looked away but not before she saw the twitching of his own smile at her reaction.

“Apologize for nothing, Mr. Blake. Life in town,” she struggled to not sound too antagonistic, “is not nearly as interesting as you might imagine it to be. There are more people to be sure, but with that comes other elements that aren’t as pleasant.”

His smile turned into a frown at the implication.

“They think ill of you there? But you’re a natural at what you do, how could they not be in awe of you?”

Her blush deepened and she was thankful that this room’s windows were somewhat shaded by heavy curtains to dim the lighting.

“You think too highly of me, I assure you. But even if your flattery were true––”  _ she hoped it was, she was rather confident in herself  _ “––I’m afraid it’s more than just my profession that puts people at unease around me.” 

She chanced a look back at Bellamy then. His frown was gone and now he was studying her that made her feel like an open book. She imagined that if he ever emerged from this dark fortress, he’d have a way with people that far surpassed her own abilities. 

“It is their loss if they find your person to be disagreeable, I’ve found you to be an extremely pleasant companion.” She smiled at his kind words but apparently he wasn’t done. “So when they referred to you as Miss Griffin, that wasn’t a slip of politeness? I’m not keeping you away from any intended, or perhaps current husband?”

There was something about the way he asked that made her feel like he very much already knew the answer to that question. 

She took a sip of her tea, letting the steam wash over her as she regained her senses, before answering.

“No, there is no one at home. I am unmarried at this time.”

If it wouldn’t have been completely unladylike even for her standards, she would have gulped back the rest of her tea right there and then. With flaming embarrassment, she focused on the glowing embers of the fire.  _ At this time _ ––what was she thinking? She couldn’t decide if it made her sound veering on desperate or too much like a flirt, like she was offering herself up at a future time.

Which, she knew she would like, but that was a thought for dreams and for when she inevitably returned home. Not for a reality where was merely a guest here to help revive his sister. 

But Bellamy only nodded, as if her slip up was nothing of consequence. 

“There––there had been a time where it had been a possible inclination,” she found herself admitting before she realized what she was doing. Opening up to someone who in all purposes was still a stranger to her. Bellamy’s eyebrows raised up. 

“An inclination? So not a devout confession of love and swearing of marriage?” His lips quirked into a smile but his eyes were focused intently on her, narrowed. She didn’t know what that was about.

She stumbled over her words, suddenly not sure how they made her sound as a lady. “Yes. A man from Polis, a visiting councilman who’d come to negotiate trade with Arkadia. There was a brief courtship of sorts and it seemed that he had at one point, the intent to take it further. That is, until I discovered he was currently engaged to another woman.”

Clarke tried to not rub her hands too anxiously. When the words were spoken out loud, it felt more foolish than it had felt at the time. She’d been heartbroken. She’d never opened herself up to someone before and the raw feeling of being lied to, of being coerced into feeling for someone she had no right to, had hurt. Finn Collins, with his long hair and good-natured smile, hadn’t been the villain of most women’s stories. Perhaps as much as she struggled to love, he loved too easily. But that wasn’t a virtue when it left not only herself, but another woman hurting in the wake of his actions.

She’d only met the other woman once. Raven Reyes had been an inventor like Clarke’s father and somehow that only made it feel worse. A woman that should have shared a kinship with her. While it would be reaching to consider them friends, they’d been able to move past their initial distrust from each other. And in turn, shared the bitterness of feeling isolated in a world that saw them as two women who not only didn’t follow in expected paths but remained unmarried. 

And perhaps, Clarke thought to herself, that was what had drawn her to helping Octavia. Beyond the intrigue of the manor and the devotion of her older brother, she was also a young woman who was not what society wanted her to be. And she wanted her to be revived to have a chance to live that life out.

Her inner monologue was broken by a sympathetic smile from Bellamy, followed by a gloved hand reaching out and gently touching her hand.

A ripple of goosebumps emerged from the contact.

“I’m very sorry, he was a fool to toy with you like that,” he urged gently. 

And then he leaned back and changed the topic as if he hadn’t set fire through her body with the forward touch. 

It hadn’t been anything untoward, though certainly more forward than the polite guidance of walking with her with her hand resting on his arm. And it had been gloved, barring actual skin to skin contact as she’d never seen him without the black leather gloves on. 

But it almost didn’t matter. His hand had burned into her and she felt dizzy with the effect. For all of her medical knowledge, she couldn’t think of how he’d be able to have that effect on her. To make her so aware of every nerve-ending within her and to become so acutely aware of him.

If he was at all affected by it, she didn’t pick up on it. 

But that was because the darkness of the room was too much even for the fire to illuminate the glittering focus in his eyes as he watched her.

* * *

For the first time since arriving at the manor, Clarke couldn’t sleep.

All of the other nights, she’d fallen asleep almost instantly. Her head would hit the pillow and after checking in on Octavia, doing research all day in that study, she’d pass right out. A pleasant addition was that it was the softest bed she’d ever slept in, certainly nicer than her room back in town above the apothecary. But there was something about tonight that made it difficult for her to let sleep overtake her. Instead, she tossed and turned underneath the silk sheets as her mind spun.

A part of her was still stuck on a potential plant that maybe she could try to use to help Octavia. She’d have to go out and scavenge for it and she hadn’t left the grounds since arriving. She supposed Miller would be able to guide her. 

Another part of her was sure it was from belated (or practically continued) embarrassment about her admitting to Bellamy about that past story of hers.

And well Bellamy… he seemed even more present in her thoughts since coming to the manor.

Especially the way she could still feel his hand burning into her skin, hours past when it had happened.

She tried to not focus on that. She was many things that made society lift its nose at her: stubborn, in charge of her own wellbeing, financially independent. She spoke her mind. But to simper and fawn over a man for simply touching her arm… she couldn’t bring herself to move past the embarrassment.

Twice more she twisted in the sheets and tried to rest but she was too fully awake now for it to be effective. Sighing, she pulled herself from out from underneath the heavy blankets. She shivered at the touch of the cold wood beneath her bare feet, quickly hurrying across her room to get her slippers and robe on to protect herself from the night’s chill. Once she was satisfied, she eased her door open as quietly as she could and made her way out into the hallway with the candle from her bedside to light the way. 

The manor seemed to swell in size during the night. Its cavernous ceilings disappeared into pitch darkness and the stairs seemed to descend into the depths of the earth. Her evening slippers barely made a noise against the old hardwood floors, her robe trailing just behind her. She was almost nervous to breathe too loudly lest she wake any of the few people here. Only once did she cross the illumination of the moonlight from outside, the stained glass windows near the front entrance of the manor scattering shattered reflections of pale silver light on the floor. Letting her candle guide her, a solitary spot of golden glow amongst the inky blackness, she wound her way through the manor towards the drawing room.

A part of her wished that she’d had Bellamy with her for this, to help show her around. Maybe he had favorite selections that he could share with her. Learned men were becoming more common, but it was still a rare trait in town.

But those types of thoughts, accompanied by the knowledge of the late hour, felt too close to veering into an inappropriate territory so Clarke steadfastly pushed those thoughts aside.

She needed to only imagine that he was there beside her, to help her trace her steps back to the room as she had earlier, and that was certainly enough.

The fire from that evening was out, leaving the room drafty and her thankful for the robe she’d put on. She clutched it tighter with one hand, using the other to use her candle to light the larger lamp that sat in the room alongside some of the couches. It was still a dimly lit room, but now she could better see the wall of shelves, loaded down with leatherbound books of all sizes. She ignored the look from the closest bust, in her head imagining it lecturing her for her late alertness, and instead let her hands drift across the titles. 

It seemed that the Blake family collection covered a wide expanse of genres. The section she started at surprisingly covered farming, and she found herself becoming immersed in a few that dealt with tips for growing different plants. Certainly useful for the days when she no longer wanted to scavenge for everything herself in unknown woods.

She began to build a small stack on the cushion of the couch, selecting the most useful looking ones for now and then moving further down the way. Clarke became lost in the books. The shelves seemed endless and as her eyes adjusted to the dark, save for that lone lamp, she felt like she could be there for hours studying the different bindings. Her to-read stack grew taller and taller as she pulled out book after book from their carefully slotted homes. It would take ages for her to actually read all of them, perhaps Bellamy would let her borrow some. It would give her an excuse to return to the manor at a later date to return them… 

Suddenly a strange noise, almost like a growl, emitted from behind her. Startled, convinced she’d been alone and on-edge from it being such late hours, Clarke whirled around in a panic. But luckily, she was able to relax once she realized who was standing behind her.

“Oh! Mr. Blake, you’re up as well,” she said as she caught her breath from the surprise. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

It was like he’d somehow known her earlier thoughts about wishing for him to be there with her. Though she wouldn’t have been able to fathom how or why he appeared. 

He was silent, staring at her. It was impossible to fight off the blush that emerged under his long look. It made her squirm, that he wasn't saying anything. Something about him seemed different but she couldn’t put a finger on it. It must just be the trick of the light. Though possibly he was angry that she had come into the study without a chaperone. Since her first day he’d been open that the manor was hers to walk about as she desired, but she usually kept to the wing where she was sleeping and Octavia’s, only really venturing around when she was with him or one of the few servants. Maybe he was displeased that she’d come in here at such a late hour; maybe she’d actually woken him up.

She cleared her throat. “I apologize for the intrusion. I haven’t had any difficulty sleeping since getting here but something about tonight…”  _ She was rambling, damn it all.  _ “As it is, I’ll take my leave and see if I’m able to get some sleep now.”

Clarke moved to make her way around Bellamy, who still hadn’t moved, but that seemed to spur him into action. And he took two long strides forward, effectively forcing her to instead step backwards and find herself back up against the wall as he stood now directly in front of her.

She let out a squeak at the sudden invasion of her space, her eyes going wide as she looked up and saw his gaze locked in on her face.

“Mr. Blake,” she admonished, hating how breathy her voice came out. “I would appreciate a warning next time, you––”

He shook his head and her voice trailed off.

“I would prefer if you didn’t call me Mr. Blake,” he requested quietly, his voice low. He leaned in, somehow even closer to her. She also became increasingly aware of the fact that she was only in her night shift and a robe, her body no longer shielded by the layers of skirts, undergarments, and width that it usually did. 

“Wha-–what would you rather I call you?” She managed to ask.

Clarke belatedly realized he wasn’t wearing his gloves, only when his hand brushed against her arm to place it alongside her head, encasing her to him. He leaned in even closer and all decorum was gone; he was nearly on top of her and his body’s heat radiated through the robe and she was close enough to see the scar on his lip, the unnatural brightness in his eyes, before he ducked his head. 

“Bellamy,” he growled against her neck and she felt her eyes flutter shut. “I want you to call me by my given name, Bellamy.”

How could she tell him that she had only ever seen him as that in her mind? That internally she’d ignored proprietary from the moment she’d met him and been unable to refer to him by anything else in her mind? But she’d never said it out loud. Her properness knew better than to assume familiarity on that level with him. He’d only ever been Mr. Blake in vocal respects only. 

Only now, he was asking her to call him by his name and who was she to deny him?

She felt his breathing stutter as she let out a soft echo:  _ “Bellamy.” _

Testing out his given name on her lips felt greedy in the way that the letters rolled off of her tongue. 

She could see in his posture the way he reacted to hearing it and for a minute he was almost that of a creature, his muscles rolling back beneath his skin. The shirt he was wearing was a simple, black silk undershirt. The buttons reflected the faint light in the room and just as she was removed from her normal outer layers, so was he with the absence of his usual coat and brocade vest that he normally wore. The intimacy of it all left her light-headed. Did Bellamy know what she thought of him? The conflict that existed inside her when she was with him?

He must, on some level, understand. 

She sucked in her breath as his hand drifted towards her, his head still tucked against the conjunction of her neck and shoulder. She couldn’t see what he was doing, only the movement of his arm.

A small part of her would have wondered if he was sleeping walking, a relatively unexplainable malady she’d seen before, but he seemed much too cognizant of her and their conversation for that to be the case.

His fingers brushed against her collar bone, just barely visible from underneath her robe. 

“Your heart,” he murmured, “is beating incredibly fast, Clarke.”

_ Oh. _

She very much liked the way it sounded when he used  _ her _ given name.

There was something about the way that he held the syllables in his mouth, it coming out more rounded and full than when others said it.

He lifted his head then, his eyes boring into her. 

She was momentarily distracted by his freckles, impressive for a man who rarely emerged from his home, but then she realized she was able to see them in such good detail because he was leaning in very close to her. Close enough that she could see the shallow, small cut above his life and the flecks of lighter brown in his eyes and if she let her eyes drift shut… 

But then she froze. 

Had she lost herself in the anonymity of the night? She had made a mistake with Finn those years ago; she knew better than this.

But just when she began to fear that she would have to try to push Bellamy off of her, he seemed to sense her internal panic. Within seconds of her realization, she felt his body tense up and spring back from her. His chest was heaving and she was startled by the idea that he could have been even more affected by their interaction than she had been. But gone was the smoldering burn in his eyes. Now, only panic. 

Without thinking, she took a step closer to him.

He almost flinched in panic, and then turned on his heel and ran from the room. 

Clarke’s breath caught in her throat at the whiplash of the past few moments. She could still feel his touch burning into her collarbone, the heat of his breath against her neck and then ghosting across her mouth. But she also felt cold in his sudden absence. The candle’s flame danced from Bellamy’s quick movement, while the larger lamp in the corner only cast long shadows and provided no comfort. Alongside feeling flustered, she felt confusion begin to settle into her. She couldn’t make heads or tails of Bellamy’s strange behavior, his transformation from their interactions during the daylight to how he’d behaved now.

But standing in the drafty drawing room didn’t give her anymore answers than when he’d first disappeared. So rather than linger, she shivered and quickly gathered up her candle and a few books. She felt too shaken up to attempt to take them all up with her.

Then, turning off the lamp and plunging the drawing room back into darkness, Clarke hurried back to her room. 

And despite the adrenaline rushing through her, she instantly fell asleep as soon as she collapsed back into the bed.

* * *

The next morning, Clarke felt like a match had been lit within her.

Not necessarily one of desire––as much as she’d been overwhelmed by the seduction––but of being irate. 

Bellamy Blake did not get to act all proper with her, keeping his distance from her, only to behave that sort of way in the shadows of the night. To behave so strangely and out of character, at least to what she believed to be his character. 

She was determined to get an answer from him. Some sort of explanation, if possible.

However, a snag in her plans that she ran into that morning was that Bellamy seemed equally determined to avoid her at all costs. 

When she arrived downstairs in the dining room for a small breakfast, her usual routine, she practically accosted Miller to ask where Bellamy was. He was usually wrapping up his morning meal by the time she got downstairs, somehow an earlier riser than she was, but this morning he was nowhere to be seen. Not even a fold in the table cloth to suggest that a plate had sat at his usual place that morning. And Miller confirmed it: Bellamy hadn’t been downstairs at all yet.

Her ire became mixed with concern, leading her to rush through her meal as her thoughts consumed her even more.

He possibly could have been under the influence of something. While she’d seen him partake in limited quantities of brandy, it didn’t mean he was incapable of becoming a drunk. But she didn’t believe that last night’s actions had fallen under the illusion of alcohol, which of course made it all the more confusing as to what had been going on. Perhaps sleepwalking? But that also seemed unlikely. No, none of it made any sense to her at all which meant that she must interrogate him.

Once she was done rushing through her meal, she quickly swept the first floor to no avail. Going up the stairs, her determination eliminating her usual struggle to climb so many, she set about examining the second floor. Still no Bellamy in sight. Realistically thinking, she should have thought to attend to the third floor first since that was where his sister’s room was, but that almost felt too obvious if he was in fact hiding from here. Which she fully believed he was.

Slightly more winded than the second flight of stairs, thankful that she hadn’t bothered lacing her stays too tightly that morning, Clarke ascended to the third floor of the manor.

And judging by Bellamy’s jump as he rounded one of the corners, spotting her too late to run, she was most likely correct in her assumption. 

She was triumphant though in catching him off guard and it was impossible for him to pretend like he hadn’t seen her. Which meant that he had to stand stiffly and politely as she stormed up to him, nodding his head in greeting.

Well, manners be damned this morning. 

“You’ve been avoiding me!” Clarke burst out. 

Bellamy’s eyes flashed as he glowered down at her. While last night their height difference had exhibited some merits, this morning she was less than pleased with how tall she had to attempt to hold herself while still having to look up at him.

“I’m insulted you’d think so lowly of me as to behave like a petty child,” he retorted, but she was able to pick up on a shift in his voice. A quick tell that he was clearly trying to lie to her.

“Then don’t insult my own intelligence as well,” she snorted. “I know when someone is trying to hide away from me as well as the next person.”

His nostrils flared, but this time he stayed silent.

“You don’t deny it then?”

“I was trying to give you space,” he snapped back in lieu of directly admitting it. But it was close enough and she felt a flare of triumph in her chest.

“Space for what?” She demanded. 

She’d not let her mind convince her that she’d misread what had happened. That she’d somehow imagined it all; she wanted to hear it from his own lips.

And based on the burn of pink that appeared on his cheekbones, it had really happened. 

But he stayed resolutely silent. 

So different from the version of himself that she’d run into last night. The man who’d pressed himself up against her and breathed out his given name as he requested––nay, demanded––that she call him by it. She’d felt his skin on hers, no matter how brief, and she resented that now he’d closed up again. The gloves were back, the stiff posture and the distance between them.

Well, she wouldn’t have it.

“Do you or do you not have an answer for your behavior last night?” She demanded, stepping up close to him and jabbing him in the chest with her finger.

It was hardly ladylike, but him panting against her neck while she’d practically begged for it certainly seemed to put the two of them firmly past any sort of societal expectation of behavior. He opened his mouth to reply but then, just as the words seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, the entire house shook.

And then not too far away, from the depths of the wing to their side, a shout of terror echoed from Octavia’s room. 

Both of their jaws fell slack at the sound.

It felt, along with Octavia, that the manor had awoken.

The two of them immediately turned on their heels, wordlessly moving to run in sync towards her bedroom. Clarke couldn’t tell if the manor was still shaking, if it was the remnants of the one prior, or if she’d imagined the whole thing. But the floor felt shaky beneath her feet, hoisting her skirt up to hurry alongside Bellamy. Maybe it was her shock, but she would have sworn the expressions of those in the paintings in that hallway all had turned downward with concern at the scream. But surely, that was just her own fears projecting on her surroundings.

They hurried through the hall. Was it brighter in here than it had been before?

She didn’t have time to dwell on that though, hurrying to keep up with Bellamy. Moments later, they reached the bedroom and he swung the heavy door open with a show of strength that was surprising even considering the impact that adrenaline could have on people. She couldn’t discredit that though; Bellamy had been extremely stressed ever since she had arrived. And a scream was hardly the sound that he’d want to hear.

Luckily though, it didn’t appear that there was some outward harm that had befallen his younger sister. Just as before, she was alone in her room. Except for the biggest difference being that she was finally awake. 

Octavia was sitting upright in bed, her eyes wide in confusion as she looked around her. She relaxed only a little bit at the sight of her brother, her eyes narrowing in skepticism when Clarke stepped out from behind him. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Bellamy said soothingly, if a little frantically as if trying to calm an agitated pet, as he strode over to his sister. 

Her eyes, sharp and glittering with distrust, remained on Clarke. 

“Who is she?” she rasped out. The first words that Clarke had ever heard from her.

There was no time however for her to worry about what the young woman thought of her, not when she’d woken up suddenly from the coma with no other indication that something had changed. Clarke pushed past Bellamy to get to her supplies on the bedside table.

“My name is Clarke Griffin and I was brought here to help you,” she informed the brunette woman. “I’ll need to check your vitals.”

She fished through the kit that she kept in the room at all times. When it was clear that Octavia wasn’t going to fight her on at least this part, Clarke gestured for Bellamy to help his sister sit up for her. Once she was properly up, Clarke began to listen to her heartbeat. The stethoscope was relatively small and being so close to the young woman when she was awake was a far cry from her in her slumber. Octavia was filled with a frantic energy now, her shock upon waking up clear in the way that she vibrated almost nervously. 

“How is she doing?”

Niylah’s voice broke the silence of the room; she must have come inside at some point. Her concern was palpable and Clarke quite literally felt Octavia’s pulse jump at the woman’s arrival.

“Her heart rate, while a bit quick, is in the normal range,” she explained. “I have no doubt once she’s settled into being awake it’ll be completely normal.”

She pulled back, her eyes meeting the grayish blue and hazel eyes that were staring intently back at her. 

“I’ll need––”

“You’re not going to get a blood sample,” Octavia suddenly interjected.

Clarke blinked in surprise at the outrage and leaned back again so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I wasn’t going to ask for one,” she answered with confusion, her eyes flitting to Bellamy and then back. “I find leeches to be archaic and unnecessary.”

While she could Bellamy’s posture relax in the corner of her eye, Octavia remained stoney-faced. 

“Bell, why did you let a stranger into the house?” She asked coldly. 

“I had to do what I needed to.”

While the demand was hostile, Clarke was acutely aware of the tremors that Octavia tried to hide in her inflection. As if she was scared somehow, as if Clarke was a threat to them. It was unsettling to say the least and she felt dread creeping up in the goosebumps on her neck. When she looked over to Bellamy for validation, he had a dark, sullen expression on his face and he wasn’t looking at her.

“Octavia,” Clarke interjected, “can you tell me if something happened to you? Before you fell asleep? Anything that I can specifically look for while we get you to recover? A lot of this is very much in the dark based on your symptoms.”

The young woman ignored her, now tensely focused on her brother. 

Clarke was used to difficult patients in the past, but something felt increasingly off about this situation. 

“O, we can trust her,” implored Bellamy, his voice firm but a tinge of anxiousness still breaking through. “I trust her, that should be enough. We need to keep her here.”

Clarke couldn’t stop her eyes from moving between the two siblings. His behavior now was such a different one than this morning when he’d been avoiding her and from last night when he’d––anyway, it was different. It made some parts of her feel unsure, like she didn’t know his true thoughts. But other parts of her sang because  _ he really did want her here. _

And he trusted her, which was a far cry from the people of the town.

But she could see a silent battle happening in front of her and it was too difficult to stand there and let it wage on. The feeling of being an outsider, the same feeling she’d felt just the other day as she’d gone down to the drawing room with Bellamy, returned with a vengeance. So as Octavia opened her mouth to argue with Bellamy, Clarke quickly mumbled an excuse and leapt to her feet. Bellamy jerked up and even Octavia seemed surprised, as if she hadn’t just been demanding an explanation to her presence seconds ago. But Clarke didn’t want to have to hear it. So with a quick nod, she hurried out of the room. 

She would simply pack up her belongings, very few in retrospect, and then return to town. Miller was the one who had brought her so she was sure the carriage wouldn’t take long to prepare. 

There were parts of this life and this house that it seemed she was not destined to experience. And that, she scolded herself, was more than appropriate. She hadn’t been brought here under romantic intentions. She was here as a medic and as much as she still didn’t understand about what had happened to Octavia, it was no longer her place to remain. Her curiosity didn’t outweigh her welcome here.

Those thoughts, however, seemed to sharply contrast with what Bellamy Blake wanted to happen. Because just as she neared her door, thudding footsteps echoed in the hallway behind her. 

_ No––she wouldn't let herself turn around. _

It would be impossible to resist him if she did, getting that one last look. So she ignored the “Miss Griffin” that he called out to her back and began to reach out for the large gilded doorknob to her chambers.  __

“Clarke––” her name tumbled out of his lips and that was what made her pause, dropping her hand and slowly turning to face him.

He was standing directly behind her, fighting to catch his breath.

“Please, stay.” 

Clarke bit her lip as she looked up at him, contemplating. In all senses, there was no longer a need for her to truly stay here. Octavia was now awake and Niylah would certainly make for an attentive enough caregiver. It would take little effort for her to return here if the need arose. And her shop had been closed for a while, though the payment Bellamy had offered upon her initial arrival certainly covered her absence in town. But surely it was due time for her to return there. To resume her life and to leave the strange feelings and experiences here at the manor.

But as she gazed at Bellamy, studying him, she couldn’t help the feeling that she  _ didn’t _ want to return to town. She was simply her role there, not a complete person. And somehow, here in this old and dark manor with unexplained mysteries, she felt that she was.

Her intellect was valued here, and if she was courageous enough to admit it, she was also seen as desirable (a trait she’d certainly forgotten what it felt like).

And Bellamy was looking at her with such warm, rich brown eyes as he pleaded with her to stay.

“Then I demand honesty,” Clarke insisted quietly, looking up at him. “Please, let me in.”

She wanted him to trust her. She wanted to know everything that was truly going on here at the Blake Manor.

He gritted his teeth before glancing away and rubbing at his face anxiously.

“You don’t know what you’re asking to be a part of,” he spoke through his hands. “I couldn’t bring you into this fold with good consciousness.” 

“Yet you ask me to stay?” She implored, stepping closer to him. A memory of him performing that same move in the library wasn’t lost on her––and seemingly not him as well as she watched his eyes burn brightly as his gaze dropped to her lips. As quickly as it had happened, he shot his focus back up.

“I will stay,” Clarke found herself saying, realizing that it was true as she did. She wouldn’t leave them, not like this. “But please, I ask you to let me know everything. I want to be here for you.”

Bellamy stared at her steadily, contemplating his options. She couldn’t tell which way he leaned, his face otherwise impassive, until he let out a sign and his eyes flicked away.

“We were on the brink of destitution––the Blake family that is. And they had a son, who was the sole heir to the manor and family wealth… or at least as much of it was left. He fell in love with a young woman in town and he’d assumed her parents would offer a decent dowry. At least sizable enough to help get the manor right so that he could return it to its glory. But then, when their engagement had already been announced, everything in her family burned in a fire. And then he discovered that she was already pregnant.”

The words came out of Bellamy’s mouth bitterly, his hands clutching tightly to the bannister in front of him. Clarke barely dared to breath.

“Well, as you can imagine my father wasn’t thrilled to have me appear then,” he finally said with a twisted glower. “But it was too late, he couldn’t do anything about it. To throw out a young woman, who barely remembered the man who had impregnated her and had nothing left, was too out of character even for him. So he let her stay and they married and I was raised as a Blake.” Still unable to look at Clarke, Bellamy glanced up towards the paintings across the hall from them. Her own gaze followed, taking in the stern portrait of a man who’s painted face seemed to study them in return.

“That meant though,” Bellamy continued, “that he wanted a true son. An heir that was really his own flesh and blood, not a bastard parading as one. It didn’t matter that no one else knew:  _ he knew _ and that was enough for him to always be unsettled around me. I was just different enough looking as well, a constant reminder. The sooner he had a true born son, the better.” 

Clarke thought back to the way that Bellamy and Octavia had mirrored each other and in the ways she’d picked up on subtle differences. No one had pointed out their parents’ portraits so she’d assumed it had been a natural blend of their parents that separated them in the tones of their skin, as well as other features. 

Now it appeared that it wasn’t the case at all.

The way that Bellamy told the story had knots in her stomach though. A twisting sense of dread told her that this tale, though only in progress, would not have a happy ending. 

“They tried over and over again. I grew up and even as a child, I could feel the resentment that he harbored for my mother. How could she have so easily been with child when they met, but not when it was him trying?”

Bellamy’s head cocked towards Octavia’s room and she wondered how a childhood like that shaped a man, in what ways it burrowed itself into his crevices in ways that he possibly didn’t even realize. 

“Until she became pregnant with Octavia. Then somehow, everything was good in the world again. The Blake family pockets suddenly were deeper, success was coming. ‘A son,’ he would declare, ‘has saved us all. My son.’” That part came out as a snarl, directed back to the portrait. Clarke moved closer to it, studying the way the dark brows furrowed angrily as if irritated at the artist who had captured his likeness.

Bellamy’s voice echoed from behind her. “So imagine the despair,” he said with a huff of joyless laughter, “when after an intensive labor, a baby girl emerged from my mother’s womb instead. Not a son to save the Blake family from misfortune. The signs of luck had been that my mother hadn’t been barren as had been feared, but he didn’t count that as lucky enough for him. A girl was just as useless to him as a bastard child even with his name.”

Clarke had heard stories of those families who hadn’t had the successful male heir that they needed. It was a thought process dying out, at least in the level of society within towns. Working hands were working hands on a form, a woman could run a shop just as well as a man. Especially if she knew the business better.

But manors and estates… the hierarchy of gender was still a focus in these wealthier families as they scrambled to keep ahold of the worlds that had once led and knew. 

She almost didn’t hear Bellamy come up behind her, instead feeling the radiated heat from his presence. 

Her instincts fought for her to lean back into him. She managed to barely hold onto herself enough to allow herself a miniscule sway before righting herself. 

She did allow herself a look up at him, using his distraction to look closely at his face. Far from the way he’d looked at her the other night, now his eyes burned with a different fieriess. An unchecked rage was lit in the rich darkness of his irises. All directed at the man in the portrait in front of them. It was one more indication to where this story was going.

“I suppose we lived as best we could for a while. But there was always something brewing, something underneath all of this here.”

That was when Bellamy finally looked at her again.

“This––this is where I don’t know how to proceed,” he added on quietly. Nervously, as if she would judge him for whatever it was that he had to say next. 

Clarke took that chance to reach her hand out and grasp his. An immediate flare of heat passed into her at the touch and she swallowed back a gasp. Even without the tension of the previous night, the feel of his bare skin to hers was enough to make her dizzy. But as the initial feeling passed, leaving a warm buzzing feeling in its wake, she recognized a sense of ease passing through him at the contact. As if she was helping ground him to reality.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she said quietly. “But if you’re worried that I’ll see you in a different light, you needn’t be. I know a good person when I meet one, Bellamy. And you are one.”

His eyelids fluttered shut at her saying his given name, a softer but still emotional reaction compared to last night when he’d pulled it from her, but after a moment he nodded and opened his eyes again.

“It was Octavia’s seventeenth birthday. Things had already been deteriorating around the house. Less food, my father drinking more alcohol every day. He was stubborn and he refused to sell off any of the land for money. Deep inside he must have known, but he was convinced that the dead soil would one day turnover and we’d be able to grow crops again. But then on her birthday––” Bellamy’s eyes cut over to Clarke “––he announced he was going to marry her off. To a man he’d once traded with, McCreary. Easily twice her age. I was outraged, but I was stunned at how much angrier our mother was. I’d never seen her that fiery before. For years her health had been declining and she was a shadow of the woman I remember raising me as a child. Octavia was more or less directly under my charge.”

Bellamy ran his hands through his hair, momentarily lost in thought before continuing on.

“But that day, it was all like all of the strength that had been taken from her returned. She refused to let her only daughter get shuttled off like cattle. Especially to a man like McCreary. That led my father into going on a tirade. I’ll never forget his words.” His face screwed up at the memory, his voice dropping lower as he did what must have been an imitation of the man. “ _ ‘If this family is so set on this bloodline dying off, ending in bastards and an unmarried whore, then we’ll just end it now.’ _ And then he turned and grabbed one of the vases off of the fireplace’s mantel and threw it at our mother.”

A pin could have dropped in the hallway and it would have reverberated throughout the entire manor.

Bellamy’s knuckles were white he was clenching his fists so tightly and nausea churned in Clarke’s stomach.

She hadn’t expected a happy ending, but this was going in a direction that she hadn’t foreseen.

“He went for Octavia next so I threw myself into the fray. I still despise how long it took me to react to his first action but it had been so shocking that I’d been frozen in my seat. I managed to deflect him enough but then he’d had enough of me.” He laughed spitefully at the memory.

“There’s a mausoleum on the grounds. It’s the tomb for my great-great-grandfather, a man I’d respected for his research––most of the library is his doing. Which I imagine my father knew, probably resented how much of a connection I had to a man that wasn’t even really related to me outside of marriage and name. So I’m sure it gave him some sort of twisted satisfaction to lock me in there with his remains.”

Bellamy shuddered before continuing. “I fought back against him as much as I could, but he was too strong. Too consumed by his madness. I couldn’t hold him back and he succeeded in trapping me there.”

The visual of it was painful. A young man, struggling to push back against a man he’d seen as his father, fighting to protect the women in his life.

“I knew it was probably too late for my mother.” Bellamy’s voice was thick with emotion at this point. “But Octavia had always been my responsibility. I had to get to her.”

He glanced down at his hands and Clarke’s eyes followed. The gloves were back on, the black leather highlighted by the day’s light streaming through the windows. 

“I dug at the ground until my fingers bled,” he intoned, “clawing at the stone to find any way out of it that I could.” 

It was like Clarke could hear his cries of desperation ringing in her ears and her own hands hurt at the lengths that he went to get out.

“I thought I would die down there, unable to save them. So I did the only thing I could think of and I prayed. But this had never been a religious household. The Blakes were always a scholarly family: astronomers, inventors. Faith didn’t have a home in these halls, especially when my father’s prayers went unanswered for so long. I had never even prayed before, had only seen it in paintings in books. But I sat there on the cold dirt, clothes and hands covered in blood and my great-grandfather’s bones behind me, and prayed. I asked for the strength to take back what was mine, to defend this house that had always been mine no matter how much my father didn’t want to admit it.”

“And your prayers were answered?” Clarke asked slowly. She recognized that feeling of desperation. A physician’s background left prayer as a last attempt, when science had all but failed you. She couldn’t imagine the breaking point that Bellamy had reached.

He nodded. 

“Something came to me,” Bellamy said distantly, cautiously as if to make sure that she didn’t mock him for what he was about to say. “It wasn’t corporeal in form, save for a sort of shimmer around me. But deep in my chest, almost painfully, I felt it answer me. Asking me what I would give to achieve what I needed.”

Clarke held her breath as she listened. Subconsciously, she’d moved even closer to Bellamy as he spoke. 

“What… what do you think it was?”

Bellamy shifted his weight, hesitating before gesturing around.

“I can’t explain my theory, outside of it being something instinctual I feel within me. But I’m convinced it was the very manor itself, the grounds that it was built on. And that while perhaps my father had deemed me unworthy, the manor had not. It recognized me for who I was as a person and responded to my call.”

Clarke waited quietly, trying to not press him to rush his story.

“Who we are, and who we have to be to survive,” he enunciated carefully, “are two very different things.”

He gently reached down and began to pull off one of his gloves. Clarke wasn’t able to pull her eyes from his face, watching as torment and sorrow flickered in tandem in his expression. 

“I can only imagine what it was, at the end of the day, that I prayed to. What it was that gave me the strength it did to allow me to break out of that mausoleum and to kill my father. But it helped give me the clarity of what I needed to do, and after all, he wasn’t related to me by blood and he certainly only saw me as a stain against this family. But the manor chose me.” He flexed his now bare hand, as if waking it, before turning slightly towards Clarke.

“He’d seen my blood as inferior. But there is a power to it that he could never fully appreciate. It wasn’t really a symbol of purity, like he saw, but a sign of life. And to take the blood of someone else, like he had when he’d attacked our mother and injured her, you’re taking that life from them. He was the one draining the energy from her, through his hatred of me and what Octavia and I represented. So it would be no different––in fact, a just reason––for me to take his own.”

A chill ran down Clarke’s spine. 

But it was not one of fear, as much as Bellamy’s words conjured up a vivid image in her mind.

“In the top corner there was a small crevice where an old bat tended to nest. Octavia and I had played with it for years as children, or more so chased it around at night when we were able to sneak out. We’d known that it would hide there during the day. And after feeling the sensation in me that something was listening, the bat flew to me and haphazardly brought itself to ground. She was nearly dead already at that point; it had been years since I’d seen any bats on the grounds and her age was apparent.” His voice trembled just barely at this point. “The voice, that I felt more than heard, told me it was the only offering I needed to commit myself to it.”

He let out a long shuddering breath. Clarke wanted to reach out and grasp him, reassure him that he was okay, but she was too scared to break the spell that seemed to have fallen over both of them.

“I’d never seen that much blood before. But once I’d freed her, I instinctively traced it down the lines of my face,” Bellamy said with a grimace. Clarke’s own nose twitched at the idea, able to nearly smell the metallic nature of blood from past experience. 

“That was when I felt the transformation.” 

Clarke’s head jerked up at those words.

“I came back into the manor, covered in blood and dirt. I’d found that I suddenly had the strength to push the stone of the mausoleum out of the way. My body was stronger, the pain I’d experienced from him manhandling me away was entirely gone. And all I knew was that I had to let my emotions consume me.”

At first, it was difficult to merge the version of himself that he was describing with the Bellamy that she’d come to know since arriving at the manor. 

But then she thought of the night in the drawing room, the burning hunger that had taken over him. Had he let his own attraction to her consume her? She felt a flare of heat course through her at the idea and she had to shake her head to resume focusing on the much darker story at hand. 

“Octavia has always been smart, quick on her feet. She’d managed to hide within the manor and he was trying to hunt her down. I couldn’t waste time but I almost didn’t even have to worry about it. My vision felt sharper. I could sense his presence moving throughout the house like a thorn in my side. A sharp, painful digging into my chest. He was a poison and I had to remove him.”

His eyes shuttered shut.

“I’m not proud of what I did to him when I caught him. But I’d done what needed to be done, to rid the manor of him and save my family. But it was too late for my mother. We only managed to keep her alive for another few days before she passed away.” Bellamy’s voice grew rougher with emotion. “Octavia could tell I was different. She begged me to transform her too. She never wanted to feel that way again, so helpless. How could I say no?”

Clarke edged closer to him. The family loyalty she thought she’d seen from earlier on in her time here paled in comparison when she knew the true depth of what the siblings had gone through together. 

“I should have waited until I better understood what it was that I’d done to us, though I don’t know how I would have done that,” he admitted quietly. “And she is stronger. No one will be able to tell her how she should live her life and that is what she deserves. But there was one element of all of this that I didn’t understand. Our connection to this manor: it’s in our very blood. It is what keeps us alive. I didn’t know until––until––”

Running his hands through his hair with frustration, Bellamy mumbled an apology for being unable to keep his thoughts straight. Clarke quickly soothed him, in some ways thankful for the time given for being able to attempt to process it all so quickly.

“I don’t dare call it a curse,” he finally said, his dark eyes flicking back to her. “It in many ways is a gift. But Octavia and I were in an argument and she tried to convince Niylah to leave with her. But once she stepped foot off of the grounds, something happened. Niylah said she turned pale, her emotions mixed up and rabid. They passed a creature and Octavia lunged for it, tearing into it before Niylah could stop her.” He looked almost ill. “But then partway through, she began to convulse. The further away from the grounds, the worse it became.”

Clarke felt the pieces clicking together in her mind, as much as this story was beyond anything she had ever read in her studies.

“The manor keeps you two alive,” she finished for him. He nodded in confirmation.

“While we are here, we don’t have to concern ourselves. We eat, sleep, live normally. But I tested it one day. A bloodlust and haze overtakes you if you step off the grounds, I’m startled O made it as far as she did without succumbing. Niylah managed to drag her back here before it got too much worse.”

“And the sleep?” Clarke asked, grateful in some sense that her dead end with Octavia’s mysterious illness had not been a lapse of judgement on her end. 

“It was a toxin,” he explained ruefully. “One of the few plants that still grows on the property. It’s deadly when overdosed but just a very small amount helps someone sleep. Our mother used it once or twice when the pain was too unbearable.”

Guilt wracked Bellamy’s face.

“I would have never given it to her under normal circumstances. But being back on the grounds didn’t seem to actually be helping and I was panicking. When the normal length of time passed and she didn’t wake, I feared the worst. Hence me bringing you here.”

“And that’s why Octavia wasn’t happy to see me here,” Clarke added on, understanding blooming. With a history like that, it was difficult to imagine anyone feeling comfortable with someone else being there.

“Yes,” he chuckled, tension slowly ebbing away from him as it became clear that she wasn’t about to immediately run from the sight of him. “I can’t blame her, we kept only Niylah and Miller around for a reason. But it was worth it, in more ways than one.” She couldn't help but smile at the implication. "And while I can't quite say what it is that's broken her out of it, I am thankful that you're here all of the same."

“And are you both now…” Clarke trailed off, unable to bring herself to say the word. Bellamy shook his head with a half-shrug.

“I don’t believe that the word specifically applies to us, at least from all of the research I’ve done.” His lips twitched into a small smile, the first since he’d shared his family’s truth. “You’ve seen me eat meals before, I am capable of going outside. I am still a particular fan of beds, especially mine, rather than a coffin of some sort.”

She let out a small laugh of her own. 

“Well,” she glanced back up at him, “there are things that are currently unexplained by science already. And many view scientific discovery as the supernatural itself, who are we to imagine that we’re capable of discerning the difference ourselves?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that our body temperature runs higher. I haven’t had a chance to study all of the changes, though I do feel that human touch directly… impacts people differently,” he added, more nervously now. She thought back to the drawing room and how his very touch had seemed to consume her and to render her unable to move. Clarke couldn’t help but blush.

“I don’t think-–well, rather, please don’t feel compelled to worry yourself about that anymore,” she stuttered. How were you supposed to properly convey that while you appreciated feeling in control, that night was most certainly not a regret and you don’t mind? Bellamy gave a sort of nod but then slowly shook his head. As if her words, despite attempting to be reassuring, were not enough.

“If you see me as a monster,” choked out Bellamy, “you’re welcome to leave. I would never dream to imprison you here against your will. This house is filled with demons, and some days I fear I have more.”

He continued to refuse to look at her.

But Clarke couldn’t see the monster that he so clearly saw when he looked at himself. She only saw a broken man who did whatever it was he could to help his family. Who had sought out her help to ensure his sister’s health, who loved to read and study. Who saw her as a whole person, not an abomination of a woman or as a frightening spector who pulled people from the brink of death. In fact, he himself had shared his own dealings with death and how it entrenched you. Yet together, it felt like neither of them were held down by their pasts. 

So no, she couldn’t see the monster that he saw reflected in gilded mirrors. 

She gently reached out, touching her hand to Bellamy’s. The heat of his body still made her gasp, even more so knowing that power that flowed through him. He started at the light sensation, looking down at where their hands met as she gently wove her fingers between his. 

“If you need forgiveness,” she said softly, “I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven.”

Clarke stepped in even closer this time, bringing herself as close as she had been the night before. Tilting her head back, she looked up into his now glassy eyes. He blinked away the emotion and its place, amongst the unshed tears, was that same look he’d had in the drawing room.

“And I will stay,” she continued. “Because I want to, and not because you have some sort of willpower over me that makes me lose my senses.”

Bellamy helplessly chuckled at that and she watched as his eyes moved from hers to lingering at her lips for an extended pause.

She leaned into his frame and he in turn, mirrored her movements. 

“I hadn’t known bringing you here would make me feel like this,” he murmured against her skin, “but I’ve felt more alive now than I have in years.” 

His lips then met hers and she felt a heat race through her at the mere touch. Now that she knew what he had experienced, she felt that her senses were able to pick up the intricacy of it all. Not only was he warm and steady against her, the heat wasn’t just that of passion. She felt as if the very network of the manor’s materials and the ground itself were working through her. Her veins were ignited from the way that his hands engulfed her waist as he drew her closer, but the web of blood throughout her felt like growing roots as well, reaching out and running throughout the ground.

And as his mouth drifted, leaving burning kisses across her cheek and down to her neck, Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut. 

* * *

The small apothecary shop never reopened in Arkadia. Simply one day it was empty and no one was none the wiser of who had come in the night to empty its contents. Simply one morning, Miss Delilah Workman was walking back from making a delivery from her family’s bakery, and discovered it to be completely dark and entirely void of all signs of life. Every herb gone, every book of remedies absent. Not even a single speck of dust remained. 

Word spread quickly throughout the town and there was a general feeling of panic. Because while Doctor Jackson in the next town over was perfectly capable on his own, no one liked the idea of an extended trip for a medical situation or emergency.

But then one day, a young girl Charlotte accidentally sliced her hand on a knife and just when panic began to set in about blood loss, a knock on her family’s door revealed Clarke Griffin herself. No one had called upon her nor had any sighting occurred recently, but there she was. Within half an hour, Charlotte’s hand was on the mend and Clarke had left once again. This time, a few plucky individuals followed from a distance as she left town and that was how it revealed she was still living up at Blake Manor.

As winter came and went, the stories circled town even more. The uncanny ability, now tenfold from before, for her to have a sense when someone was in need of medical assistance. Though now, some swore to have actually seen her bring someone back to life, not just from the brink.

Unsubstantiated rumors to be sure, but nonetheless it left neighbors even more curious than before about the strange doctor.

No less strange was the knowledge that she now lived up at Blake Manor, and since her presence there, there now had been multiple sightings of the original residents. While they never left the property, they had emerged from the darkened house to venture further onto the grounds. But in some ways, their presence made the townsfolk more at ease. There was a new life to the dark home atop that hill. The fog that had hung there burned off at least a little more in the warmer days and the chill that hung in the air was alleviated. It was an unexplainable phenomenon, and anyone curious enough to approach her with a question about it or the occupants was met with a coy smile and a shake of her head.

None of that stopped children from whispering and coming up with stories about it all. A witch who looked after the sick. And what of the mysterious siblings who lived up there? Some scared their even younger siblings of stories of werewolves, warning them to look out for the full moon. Others determined they were ghosts and that the witch lived all by herself up there. 

The truth was perhaps in a hazy in between, an understanding that none of the town’s residents would ever know.

For despite the lingering darkness at the top of the hill, there was family and there was––two powerful entities within their own right and just as unexplainable as what lives within the shadows. 

**Author's Note:**

> Why I thought coming up with my own somewhat abstract concept of vampires, mixed with people being attached to the home they live in, mixed with a vague connection to the season five bunker plot, would be easy I have no idea. Did this get a bit stranger than I meant it to be? Yep! But that’s what’s fun about playing within a genre and writing fic––satisfying very specific niche interests that you have! 
> 
> I hope you liked it and don’t forget to check out The 100 Fic for BLM. While I’m not accepting new prompts, I do have WIPs that you can prompt an update for! 
> 
> **where else you can find me:** [Tumblr](https://she-who-the-river-could-not-hold.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/the_river_held) | [my carrd](https://she-who-the-river-could-not-hold.carrd.co/)


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